


Surreptitious

by StarlightHawke



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: AU where Aziraphale believes he's human, And Crowley has to try to find a way to convince him he's an angel, Angst, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-30 20:22:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19410700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightHawke/pseuds/StarlightHawke
Summary: Azra Z. Fell has always owned this bookshop. It was given to him by his father, who inherited it from his father, and so on. He's lived a very bland, normal human life - but not one he'd ever change.So who is this Crowley, and why does he keep insisting he's actually an angel?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying to write in a manner more reminiscent of the style of Good Omens, which is an interesting experiment. There's a good chance that will change the further this goes, because it doesn't lend well to my typical style. You've been warned~

It's a beautiful day when Azra Ziya Fell opens his bookshop at 8 am sharp. The sun shines in the magnificent blue sky, the birds sing brightly (though one is hard-pressed to hear them over the sound of traffic roaring by), and the smell of the bakery a few doors down greets him. “Oh, how delightful,” he mumbles, taking in the sweet scent of freshly-made pastries. “Perhaps I should have waited a few moments longer to open.”

Of course, he says this every day when he opens at exactly 8am, but he’s never once gone to the bakery to purchase said pastries. No, sadly, he’s forced to stick to his diet of salads and bland foods, on order from Dr. Gabriel. His body is much too fragile at his age to handle anything substantial or filled with sugar. 

“Unless you’d like to end up in a coma,” the good doctor had laughed, hands clasped in front of his expensive gray suit. “I’m not even sure heaven has the power to save you then.”

Being of the agreeable nature that he naturally was, Azra had immediately stocked his fridge and pantry with everything recommended to him; different types of lettuce, potatoes, bananas, oatmeal, and eggs. Only skim milk or water to drink; tea was borderline, and hot cocoa absolutely not allowed. He missed the days of crepes and sushi, but alas; dying was simply not on his to-do list.

With a small sigh, he closes the door and flips the sign, turning around and surveying his kingdom, small as it may be. What was he planning…?  _ Right, today I was going to organize those Jeffrey Archer books. _

When he’d returned from his two month-long sabbatical, the place had been a frightful mess. Books stacked haphazardly everywhere, the shelves entirely unorganized. How he had ever let it get so bad is a complete mystery, but little by little, he’s been chipping away at it. During the process he’s found some rather unique wonders; first editions, often signed and addressed to varying versions of a name quite similar to his own. 

He supposes that has something to do with the generations of his family that have run this bookshop, and collected books before then. Azra is an old family name, after all, and no doubt it’s morphed over the years to match with the times. 

But the real question is  _ how _ did he never realize he had so many relics? And to have them out on the shelves, where anyone could walk in and ask to purchase them. Tsk, tsk. That won’t do, now will it? A complete remodel is needed, to separate the books-for-sale from the books-to-look-at so no one makes the mistake of buying something he can’t replace.

Does he have the money in the budget? The shop doesn’t turn over stellar profits, but thankfully his family had the good fortune to invest plenty of money away in promising enterprises. Such as buying stocks in Apple in 1980. A brilliant move.

So really, he should have more than enough to do a complete overhaul. Close the shop for a few months, bring in some workers and redesign the interior to be more sensible and aesthetically appealing. Perhaps he’ll even manage to make more sales, that way.

Wouldn’t that just be… dandy.

With that thought in mind, he promptly returns to the front of the shop and closes it. Now, to plan. 

-oOo-

It’s a big project. Far bigger than Azra originally intended, but he was delighted (although also rather a tad bit confused) to find that the upstairs portion of the shop was perfect for a living area, and entirely unused. 

He can’t fathom  _ why _ he chose to make a living space downstairs, nor why he neglected to even own a simple mattress, but that’s neither here nor there at this point. Now is about fixing the peculiar mistakes of his past self so that his current and even future self can thrive. 

Soon enough, the plans are drawn up and the money paid. Azra spends his nights at a nearby hotel, the days occupied with the tedious task of finding proper furniture for his new - dare he say it? - flat above the shop. Acquiring these items is not something he finds particularly enjoyable, and so he feels a great amount of relief once the deed is done. 

The flat doesn’t take long to renovate, as it simply needed a few updates. The next thing on his list - one that he  _ must _ devote the entirety of his attention to - is the boxes upon boxes of books. 

They need to be sorted, catalogued, and their purpose chosen. Obviously one can’t own a proper bookshop if one doesn’t actually  _ sell _ books. No, that would be more like a private library that he sometimes allows visitors to peruse. 

Knocking out the kitchen area gives him a place to devote to the most old and delicate of the relics. Some may not be worth the risk of even sharing, honestly. They’re so  _ old _ , originals, and he could never replace them should something happen.

But who is he to deprive humanity from such beauty? Ah, he’ll just have to enact special rules for anyone who wishes to touch his delicates.

The study is repurposed into a small lounge area, one Azra likes to imagine university students using, on occasion. There is no other collection in London - nay, the whole of England- like his, and of course some of it would be particularly useful to the discerning pupil. 

When the whole thing is finished - in little under a month, by some miracle - it takes only a day for Azra to reshelve his books, each one of them tucked safely away in the not-for-sale section of the shop. This leaves him with a matter of shelves and two displays starkly empty, conspicuously near the front. 

The area where the for-sale books should be.

Nevertheless, he opens at exactly 8am on the following Thursday morning, new, extended hours proudly displayed along with a set of rules for those not looking to purchase. Two people enter that day, both leaving seeming confused and, shockingly, rather underwhelmed. When Friday and Saturday pass much the same, Azra begins to feel concerned.

Perhaps he should take up baking? Some lovely croissants would fill the display area quite nicely, and would draw in an entirely different sort of crowd. Oh, but then they might want to  _ touch _ the books after eating, with dirty, oily hands, and that  _ just won’t do. _

When the front bell rings at precisely 8:39 Sunday evening, Azra doesn’t even bother looking up to greet the customer, too busy frowning at the empty shelves. “Welcome to A.Z. Fell’s Bookshop,” he says, voice lacking the excitement he should be feeling. “Enjoy your, ah, stay.” 

Footsteps approach him, stopping before the stranger is fully next to him. A pregnant pause ensues before finally, “You’ve redecorated, Angel.” Another moment of silence. “I don’t like it.”

Now, Azra has been called many things in his life: A.Z., Azriel, Asran, and on one memorable occasion, Ezekiel. This, however, is a new one, and not one he’s particularly comfortable with. The amount of familiarity behind it feels… strange, and makes his skin crawl.

“Well, it’s a good thing I didn’t ask for your opinion then, isn’t it?”

A low chuckle fills the room, one that feels decidedly evil. Azra catches movement out of the corner of his eye, a man with short, dark hair and sunglasses - _sunglasses,_ _inside? At this time of night?_ \- now standing at his side. “Honestly, I didn’t think you had it in you to make such drastic changes to this old shop. I’m impressed.” It could’ve been a compliment if not for the sarcasm dripping from each single letter.

The  _ nerve.  _ Who does this jerk think he is, walking into Azra’s shop and passing judgment like that? Sputtering in shock, it takes Azra a moment before he pivots, making eye contact - well, as much as he can when he can’t see the man’s eyes - and blessing him with the most withering glare he can manage. A tiny bit of triumph dares to hoist a flag in his mind when the stranger’s face drops from a cocked half-smile to a form of confusion. 

“Listen, sir, I-I don’t know who you think you are, barging in here and making comments like that, but I will not allow it.” The confusion appears to grow deeper, the man taking a slow step backward. Azra moves with him, keeping the distance between them equal. “Now, if you’re quite finished, I’d like you to leave.”

Stunned silence hangs in the air between them. Azra sniffs and pushes his glasses up from where they threatened to fall off the edge of his nose, waiting for the man to make his next move. What clever insult will be next? Surely the like of him have so many more stored away.

The sound of the clock ticking is loud, each second passing feeling more like a milennia. Finally, the stranger looks away and scratches his head, his voice softer when he speaks. “Look, I’m sorry it’s been so long since I last visited, but surely you’re not  _ that _ upset with me. You’ve had your fair share in lapsed communication as well.”

“What in the  _ heavens  _ are you talking about, man?” It’s official, this guy is a nutter. Azra has  _ never _ seen him before in his life, and yet here he is, talking as if they’re old friends. “I have never met nor spoken to you before. Now, if you’ll please-” In a burst of courage, he places his hands on the man’s shoulders and turns him around, pushing him toward the door. “ _ Get out.” _

The man lingers, glancing back over his shoulder with an expression that Azra could only equate to  _ hurt _ before opening the door and walking into the night with nothing more than a frustrated wave. Azra watches him go, disappearing into an old black car that roars to life before pulling onto the road and speeding away. 

“That was disconcerting,” he mumbles under his breath, flipping the sign to say ‘Closed’ despite it still being an hour early. Such a strange encounter deserves a nice spot of tea - sorry, doctor - and some light reading to distract him.

-oOo-

Tires squeal as Crowley drifts into his parking spot, throwing the car into park and killing the engine.  _ What was that about? Aziraphale’s never acted like that towards me. Not even in the Garden… _

They’ve had their tiffs in the past; a disagreement here, an argument there. Even then, though, the angel has never, not once, turned him away.  _ It was like he didn’t even know who I am… _

The door slams shut behind him as he stalks toward the entry of his flat, mouth pursed and eyebrows drawn rather severely. This isn’t right, something is  _ definitely _ wrong. He’d know if he’d done something that pissed him off  _ that _ much, right?

Well. Only one thing for him to do.

Find out whatever is wrong, and do exactly what he shouldn’t do: try to fix it.


	2. Chapter 2

Crowley spends most of the following night deep in thought. A quick internet search shows the renovation of the bookshop began about one month prior to his return - after having been closed for two months.  _ Thank Satan for reporters having nothing better to run a story on, _ he thinks, skimming through the interview Aziraphale had given. A two month sabbatical, from which Azra - “Azra?” he repeated out loud, wrinkling his nose in confusion before continuing - returned feeling renewed and eager to make much needed changes to his place. 

The entire thing stinks of foul play. Aziraphale never  _ once _ mentioned wanting to change the set-up of the building. In fact, he’s always seemed charmed by it. Crowley would be remiss not to admit the new organization and aesthetic layout is a nice change, but that doesn’t change the fact that it just doesn’t feel like something his best friend would do.

But he did. The evidence is  _ right there. _ Crowley saw it, in person. And he didn’t just miracle it, he paid  _ actual _ money to  _ actual _ people to change it.

“Azra, Azra, Azra,” Crowley mutters, idly tapping his fingers against his desk. “Why Azra? He never wanted a human name, that’s why he took on the initials.” Was he pushed for it? Did the reporter  _ demand _ that he give her more to work with? Unlikely that he would fold so easily, though; Aziraphale may be soft, but he’s never let humans walk over him before.

They’ve been in nearly constant contact over the past ten years. Doing their best to influence the antichrist, hoping to prevent the war. But Crowley has to take some time to do a call in America, and went dark for much longer than he’d intended to. But Zira had known what was going on. There’s no reason for him to hold it against him.

_ Something happened while I was away. _ There’s no other explanation he can fathom. Perhaps he’s being watched, and he has to pretend that Crowley is a stranger?

“I’m thick! Of course that’s the problem.” Shaking his head in irritation, Crowley grabs his mister. Now that he’s got that part riddled out, his plants need his attention.

-oOo-

He waits to arrive at the shop until closer to closing time, this time choosing to don a suit, a wig with gray hair, and a cane. Switching out his normal sunglasses for an older model, Crowley knows he looks a lot less like himself than normal. With any luck, Aziraphale will catch on that he’s  _ finally _ aware of the situation and will give him some sort of information to work with. 

The bell dings, and he enters to find the angel staring at the same empty display table as the night before. Again, his face is a mixture of frustration and utter confoundment, and the sheer ridiculousness of the situation tugs a snicker out of Crowley. 

“It’s not going to do any tricks, you know.” Familiar blue eyes flick over to him, giving him a once over before returning back to the table. “Is there a reason you’re just standing there, staring at it?”

“Ah, haha....” Fingers travel to tug at the bowtie, and Crowley feels a little more relieved to see such an  _ Aziraphale _ movement. He relaxes a little, waiting for him to continue. 

Aziraphale clears his throat, and gives another nervous chuckle. “I… I know that this is silly, but I keep hoping that it will just… fill up with whatever should be there.”

Eh? “Fill with whatever should be there?”

“Yeah. Just ‘pop!’ And suddenly the entire table is overflowing with whatever my customers could want.” As soon as he finishes speaking, Aziraphale deflates, turning to Crowley with a pleading look so earnest that he feels his heart jump into his throat. “It’s absolutely ridiculous, I know, but I just can’t seem to figure out what should go there.”

The slump in the angel’s shoulders causes Crowley to feel distress, but considering that they’re being watched, he’s unsure what is safe for him to do. Yet the issue itself… Yeah, it truly  _ is _ ridiculous. “Well. You do run a bookshop, you know. You could put books there.” Emphasizing his suggestion with a grandiose gesture that encompasses the whole of the empty section, he offers a cheeky grin to his friend. “Perhaps sell some? Have you considered giving that a try?”

“ _ Sell _ them?!” The pure indignation behind the sputtered words gives Crowley a laugh, and the following attempt at a wounded glare only makes him laugh harder. “Yeah, yeah, have your fun, but I could never,  _ never _ sell my books. They’re too valuable, and no one would take care of them-”

“Aziraphale, you silly old fool,” Crowley wheezes, clapping a hand on the man’s shoulder, “I wasn’t talking about your vast collection of ancient texts you’d only part with by permanent discorporation.” Gulping in a large breath, he smirks and runs a hand through his hair - oh, fuck, that’s a wig. He quickly drops his hand back to his side, ignoring the look of confusion etched into Zira’s face. “No, I meant you could actually run a business. Like normal book shops? You know, bring in the best sellers, sell them, and then restock?”

It’s like a light bulb flares to life over Zira’s head, eyes widening and mouth opening in the little ‘o’ shape he does when he’s about to become incredibly excited about something. “I could - why, yes, I  _ could _ do that! What a truly genius idea you have, my dear old man. Thank, oh, thank you so much.” Offering his hand, he directs a smile so full of sunshine at Crowley that it nearly bowls him over.

“Ah, you know you can’t say that, angel,” Crowley mumbles, gently batting the hand away. “I could get in a lot of trouble for helping you.”

“Oh, uh. I’m sorry, but does that mean you’re-” Zira leans forward, looking around them with a conspiratorial air about him, “-the competition?”

“The  _ competition?” _ Crowley bursts out laughing again, even harder than before. He wasn’t even aware that his friend could be such a good actor, but damn - he’s playing this part so well that if he didn’t know any better,  _ Crowley _ would believe he didn’t know him. “Yeah, I guess you could call me that.”

The ghost of a smile flits across Zira’s face and he shifts back into his previous position, nodding sagely. “Then your secret is safe with me. I’m Azra Z. Fell, by the way. The owner of this bookshop.” A quick point in the general direction of the front sign is followed by another offered handshake, dropped nearly as soon as given. “Oh, right, none of that, then. Uh. Did you need something?”

“No, no, just heard about this place getting remodeled and decided to drop on in.” An unneeded emphasize is put on the last consonant of the final three letters, Crowley shoving his hands in his slack pockets and rocking on his feet. “Wanted to make sure everything was…” What was that weird thing Aziraphale has said a few times? “...tickety-boo,” he finishes, winking.

“Ah yes, everything is absolutely ‘tickety-boo’,” Zira responds with a little wiggle, grinning widely. “And you’re welcome to stop back any time you’d like...?”

Oh, shit. Crowley hadn’t considered coming up with a different name for himself. “Anthony C. Lee.” Not the most inventive, but an echo of Aziraphale’s newly chosen moniker.

“Mister Lee.” A hand juts out once more before being retracted, embarrassed laughter surrounding them. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m just so used to handshakes. I will do my best to stop, should we meet again.”

“Please do.”  _ Never stop. _ “I suppose I should be leaving, so you can close up, yeah?” 

“Sadly, it is that time of night.” Zira hesitates for a moment, hands grasped before him. “Thank you again for your brilliant suggestion.”

“Of course, young man,” Crowley teases, winking at him once more. “And the next time I drop by, I expect those to be filled to overflowing, alright?”

“Yes sir, absolutely, Mister Lee.”

“Have a good night, then.” Turning on his heel, Crowley leaves without further ado, fighting the urge to glance over his shoulder as the bell rings on the door.

Aziraphale gave him permission to return in the future, so surely, whatever is going on now will pass, then. The anxiety and worry that had been rumbling deep within him begins to disperse at the thought and he sighs, slumping against his car and daring to look over at the shop.

_ He’s so careful when he turns over the sign, _ he realizes, Zira’s movements slow and precise as he closes.  _ Has he always been so tender with everything? _

Ah, that’s not something he should be considering right now. Hanging about for longer than absolutely necessary is a bad idea, and he should get moving before he causes any alarm. With significantly less alarm than the last time he bid adieu to his friend, he gets in his car and heads home.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey hi, you can find me as StarlingHawke on both twitter and tumblr! Come tell about the ineffable husbands with me :)


End file.
